


Never-Never Land

by veronamay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Background Het, Between Seasons/Series, Coma, Disturbing Themes, Dreaming, Dubious Consent, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-28
Updated: 2006-10-28
Packaged: 2018-01-12 15:54:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1190943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veronamay/pseuds/veronamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the space between dreaming and waking, there's a different Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never-Never Land

**Author's Note:**

> I put the pieces of myself back together after 'Salvation' and 'Devil's Trap', and then I started hearing spoilers for Dean's plotline in 2x01. And then I decided to write the tricksiest AU/missing scene fic ever, because I'm mental like that. I blame Metallica. And Kripke. And Dean. Title stolen from 'Enter Sandman'.

At first, everything's dark. Like the universe beginning. Dark, cold, empty.

Awareness filters in slowly, creeping like daylight into all the dark corners of him. With it comes a feeling of crushing, soul-deep loss, and he feels so unutterably _alone_ he can't move or breathe from the ache of it. It settles inside him, burrowing deep, making a home for itself in the pit of his stomach. He doesn't know what it is, what it means, but he knows horror when he feels it. His mouth stretches open wide to scream.

The phone on the nightstand rings, shattering the moment, shocking him into wakefulness. He reaches for it automatically.

"Winchester."

"Got a big one downtown, Dean. Chief says we need all hands on deck. I'll pick you up in ten."

"I'll be out front." He hangs up, eases quietly out of bed.

Cassie stirs, peering up at him. Dean grins at her bleary-eyed look. After five years, she's used to these middle-of-the-night awakenings; she'll roll over and go right back to sleep after he's gone.

"Big one?" she asks around a yawn.

"Yeah, somewhere downtown. Jeff's picking me up." He leans over and kisses her forehead. "Go back to sleep. I'll call you later."

"Be careful." She's already slipping under again, sprawling over the width of the bed. Used to be she'd get up and fret until he called to say he was okay. He's glad she's learned not to worry. Dean strokes her hair, then takes his clothes downstairs to get dressed.

It's cold outside. Winter's barely over, spring not really begun, and there's late frost on the grass. It sparkles softly, reflecting the harsh glow of the street lights. Dean sits on the front steps and breathes in the fresh pre-dawn air.

It hits him again as he's sitting, hands tucked into his coat pockets to keep them warm. There's no warning, no buildup, just – out of nowhere, the unbearable, desperate ache, so strong he's blinking back tears. It's sneaking through every part of him, making him heavy, useless. He feels slightly unreal in the face of it.

And yet.

It's _familiar_ , this feeling. He can't say how, or why. He just knows. He's been here before, just like this, tears streaming down his face, a hot lump of unnamed grief in his throat. In the next instant, it has a name: Sam.

In that instant, he's deaf to everything else. The only thing he can think of is Sam. He needs to see him. More: it's a compulsion, strong enough that he actually gets up and starts walking in the direction of Sam's house without thinking. He lives only a few blocks away. Dean goes past the house most days on his morning run. He can be there in five minutes. Sam. Sam. _Sam._

He's halfway down the block when he realises what he's doing. It's three in the morning, for God's sake. He has a job to do, and Sam's probably fast asleep dreaming of affidavits. But the impulse persists, and Dean gets more jittery every second he's not moving, the feeling of _needmustgonow_ twitching up and down his spine. It's a real physical effort to turn around and go back to the house; for a second it almost _hurts_ , a sharp burning pain in his chest. His vision swims, and he breathes in deeply, trying to clear his head.

A car turns into the street: Jeff, swinging by to collect him. He sticks his head out the driver's side window.

"Hurry up, they think the mall's gonna go," he says, and Dean shakes himself, snaps out of it, slides into the car.

* * *

_Is he—_

_He's stable; his vitals are good. He should be waking up soon._

_Thank God. O-okay. And what about my – my—_

_... maybe you'd better sit down._

* * *

The need for Sam doesn't leave him. Through the hours that follow, as he hauls hoses and works crowd control and tries to drown the flames in gallon upon gallon of water (searing heat and smoke and the crackling noise that makes him jumpy, all of it familiar and horrible and unsettling every single time), it sits there at the back of his mind like an itch he can't scratch. Dean ignores it as best he can while he's working, but as soon as the fire's under control, he checks the time and calls Sam's cell.

"Winchester."

Sam's tone is abrupt. Dean exhales carefully, tension leaving him in a rush.

"Hey, little brother," he says. "Want to come over this weekend? I'm barbecuing."

"Dean?"

"That's me. Unless there's someone else who calls you 'little brother', in which case I need to have a talk with Mom."

"You're mental," Sam says. Dean grins, an absurd sense of lightness filling him. "This weekend, huh? Let me check."

He hears Sam put down the phone and there's the rustle of pages turning – his day planner. That means he's already at the office. At seven-thirty on a Tuesday morning. The partners probably love that, but Dean wonders what Jessica thinks.

Sam comes back on the line.

"Okay. Saturday afternoon I'm free – I'm reviewing contracts in the morning, but I'll be done by about two. Want me to bring anything?"

"Bring some beer – not that fancy German shit, I mean real beer," Dean says. "And your wallet. I just put up a dart board, and I plan to wipe the floor with you."

"You wish." Sam sounds distracted. "Listen, Dean, I have to go. I'm meeting a client for breakfast. I'll see you Saturday, okay?"

"Okay. See ya." But he's talking to a dial tone. Sam rarely has time for long phone calls anymore, unless a client's paying. That's the price of having a high-priced lawyer in the family: nobody can actually afford to see him.

He and Sam live three blocks apart, but they get together maybe once a month – less, if it's fire season or if Sam's wooing a new client. And it's usually Dean who makes the suggestion; left to Sam, they'd only see each other at Christmas and birthdays. Hell, he sees Mom and Dad more often, and they're two states away. But Sam's a grown man. Dean can't exactly pin him down and play the big-brother card anymore. Besides, under normal circumstances he and Sam don't even get along that well. They mostly keep in touch to please their folks.

Dean goes under the security tape to get a closer look at the burn site. The blackened shell of the bookstore stares back at him, loose pages fluttering on the early-morning breeze. The air smells of charcoal and singed paper. A page hits him in the face: the first page of 'On The Road'. He's never read it.

He sees Jeff come out of the building and takes a few steps to meet him.

"How's it look in there?"

Jeff shrugs out of his coat and grimaces.

"Whole place is gutted," he says. "Looks like someone overloaded the plugs in the kitchen and shorted it out, tripped a spark or something. Burned right through the storeroom and into the mall. Five more stores got damaged inside. Lucky we got it when we did, or the whole place would've gone up."

"Someone's gonna get fired," Dean says. "No insurance payout."

"Not my problem." Jeff looks around. "I need coffee."

Dean points him to a cafe across the street that's doing a roaring trade with spectators. He stays where he is, looking at the shopfront, wondering what it looks like inside. He feels kind of sorry for it. Burning's a bad way to go, especially for a bookstore.

It occurs to him that he really hates fire. He _loathes_ it. He wants to quench every flame he sees, bury it in sand, water, foam, whatever it takes. He wants to stop random smokers on the street and demand they hand over their Zippos. He doesn't care if they smoke themselves into an early grave; he just hates the idea of the power of fire being in so many careless hands.

His cell rings, and mundanity resurfaces; he was supposed to call Cassie. Hell. He fishes out the phone and flips it open.

"Good morning, sunshine."

"Hey yourself," she says. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah. But you'll be doing your book shopping at Borders for a while, because the Barnes & Noble is history."

"Damn it. I had stuff on order there." Cassie sighs in his ear. "You coming home soon? I'm making breakfast."

"Should be. I'll call back if something happens." Dean spots his crew chief and waves at him.

"Okay. See you soon."

He closes the phone and jogs over to the chief, a grizzled guy named Paul who's been in the department for close on thirty years. Paul claps him on the shoulder.

"Thanks for helping out on your day off, Dean. You did good."

"No big deal. Things under control?" he asks.

"Everything but the paperwork, and that's my problem. You get yourself home. Don't come in till lunch tomorrow – get the sleep-in you missed today. You've been working your ass off lately."

"Yessir." Dean grins at him and takes off before he changes his mind. It's a few miles to walk, but he could use the exercise. He strips off his heavy gear and bundles it into the truck for cleaning. Then he sets off in a steady jog in the direction of home. He feels fine; he feels great. On top of the world, in fact.

He's fine.

* * *

_How is he?_

_Holding on. He's a stubborn bastard._

_Anyone else would've given up by now._

_He isn't just anyone._

* * *

Dean stumbles, recovers, and slows to a walk. For a second he felt ... disconnected, a veil between him and the world. He could almost swear he heard someone calling his name. A shiver goes through him, and he quickens his step.

Cassie's in the kitchen when he gets home. She greets him with a smile and a plateful of pancakes and bacon, and Dean is reminded again why he married her. She's perfect. So perfect sometimes it scares him. He sits at the table and eats his perfectly cooked breakfast, looking at his perfect wife, the day stretching blissfully free in front of him. He must be the luckiest guy on the planet, and if that thought jars a bit – well, that just proves he's humble, right?

* * *

That night Cassie's - _demanding_ , is the nicest way he can put it. Dean's worn out, tired from his early start and too many double shifts this month, and he's not really in the mood when she rolls over in bed and starts kissing along his collarbone.

"Babe," he sighs, taking hold of her shoulders and pushing just a bit. "Not tonight, please. I'm beat."

"That's okay," Cassie drawls, grinning into his neck. "I'll do all the work."

Her hand starts to creep southwards, nails scraping lightly over his skin, and that disturbs Dean in some deep part of him. He draws in a sharp breath, grabbing her hand before it goes any further.

"No." He says it louder than he means to. Cassie leans up and back, frowning at him, her mouth turned down.

"Why not?"

"I told you. I'm tired."

"And I told you, it doesn't matter." She brushes a finger over his nose. "I want you, and I'm going to have you. All you have to do is lie back and enjoy it."

She slithers over him before he can refuse again, straddling his hips so that he either has to submit or throw her off. Dean's never been rough with a woman in his life; he subsides, but unwillingly. Cassie doesn't seem to notice. She caresses him, stroking him to hardness, guiding him inside her with a contented sigh. His body responds to the stimulation of her hands and mouth, her slick warmth, but he's not really there. He watches her moaning and rocking above him and wonders if this counts as rape.

Then he wonders what the hell is wrong with him that he doesn't want to have sex with his beautiful loving wife. That the thought of it makes him feel trapped. That he wants to get up, get in his car and just _drive_ \- anywhere, he doesn't care where, just as long as it's away from here. His skin is itchy and tight, like it doesn't quite fit. He feels Cassie convulsing around him, feels himself coming in response, but it's as distant as the memory of a dream. It doesn't touch him. Not even remotely.

Something, Dean decides, letting Cassie sink down onto his chest, is deeply, seriously fucked up.

* * *

_What's the matter?_

_Nothing's wrong. Not yet._

_What do you mean, 'not yet'?_

_Well ... we had hoped to see some improvement by now. Some sign of—_

_It's only been a day._

_The longer it takes, the less chance of recovery._

_He'll be fine. Just give him time._

* * *

He can't get hold of Sam all week. Every time he calls the house Jessica answers, and her tone gets progressively shorter every time she tells him Sam's not there. Dean calls Sam's office and leaves messages; he calls his cell and makes animal noises at his voicemail. Every call winds him up tighter inside, and he doesn't know why. If Sam wants to be uncommunicative, and work himself and his marriage into the ground, there's not much Dean can do to stop it. But he's worried despite himself, so he keeps trying. He has no idea where this sudden surge of brotherly concern is coming from, but it's too strong to ignore. So he continues to make a pest of himself until finally, he gets hold of Sam on Friday afternoon.

"Winchester."

"Hey, Sammy. Where've you been?"

Sam's sigh is irritation personified. Dean smothers a grin, knowing Sam will somehow know it if he's laughing at him, even in his head.

"Busy. It's called work, Dean. What's up?"

"Did you get my messages?"

"Yes. All _sixteen_ of them. I had no idea you knew what a yak sounds like. I can't tell you how impressed I am."

Dean winces. Maybe he went a bit overboard.

"Okay," he says, trying to gloss it over. "I'm just checking in to see that you're still good for tomorrow, that's all."

"Tomorrow?"

"Barbecue at my place, remember?" Dean prompts. "You said you were free. What time are you and Jess coming over?"

"Uh ..." Sam begins, then mutters something under his breath. "Around four, I guess. And it'll just be me."

"Jess got something else on?"

Sam's silent for a moment; then he clears his throat awkwardly, the way he always does before saying something unpleasant.

"She's going to stay with her mother for a while."

Okay. Ouch. Dean clears his own throat, not knowing what to say.

"Uh, right. Okay. So we'll see you at four, then," he says.

"Yeah." Sam sounds relieved. "See you then. And Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"One message will do next time. Really."

"Shut up," he says, and hangs up before Sam can have the last word.

* * *

Friday's a good day. Or it would be, by any normal estimation. Dean's tinkering with the fuel line on the No. 3 truck after lunch when the chief hollers for him from the office.

"What's up?" Dean asks, wiping his hands on a rag. It's a quiet day; temps in the high sixties, but there's rain in the air and no wind to speak of, and they haven't had a call out all day. The rest of the guys are out back shooting hoops; Dean plans to go and join them shortly, when he's done with the truck.

"Nothing bad," Paul says, and nods him into a seat. "I just wanted to give you a heads-up about some changes that'll be happening around this place."

Dean cocks his head to the side, smiling. "Don't tell me you're actually doing it."

"Shut up, smartass." But Paul's got a tiny grin on his face, the one Dean knows of old. "Yeah, Marlene finally browbeat me into it. Says she's getting too old to wait around any longer, and if I don't hang up my hat soon she's going to run off to Vegas without me. So I'm taking early retirement."

"When?"

"Three months," Paul replies. "Which means I need to start training someone else to be in charge around here."

"Oh, wait a sec." Dean holds up his hands. "You're not thinking what I think you're thinking, are you? Because if you are, you're not thinking straight."

"Can it," Paul says. "You're the guy, Dean, and you damn well know it. Everyone knows it. Another year or two and you'd have me following you like a lost puppy along with the rest of them."

"But—" Dean begins, but Paul cuts him off.

"No buts. There's nobody else here I'd trust to do the job right, and nobody's willing to transfer from a different unit. You're it, Winchester, so get used to it."

His voice is gruff, but he's still smiling, and Dean feels his face get hot. It's a promotion. Holy hell. He's moving into _middle management_. He doesn't know whether to be flattered or insulted.

"Uh, thanks," he says awkwardly. "I think."

"You're welcome," Paul replies. "Don't fuck it up."

That's pretty much the end of the conversation; Dean picks up his rag and his jaw and goes back to working on the truck, and Paul goes back to his paperwork. Paperwork that will soon be Dean's responsibility. His head's already spinning at the idea.

He calls his parents, tells them the news. Mom is vocally thrilled; Dad less so, but Dean can feel his approval coming down the phone line. Dean promises to come out to Kansas for a visit in a month or so. His mother starts planning the menu on the spot.

"Have you spoken to Sam lately?" he asks her.

"A couple of days ago. He sounds tired." Her concern flows over him, making him feel guilty somehow. "He's working too hard."

"I think he's having some problems with Jess," Dean says.

"See if you can get him to relax a little, hon. I don't want him burning out."

"He's coming over Saturday. I'll see what I can do."

"That's my boy," she says, and Dean wishes she were there for him to hug.

* * *

He feels it coming this time. He's on his way home, already calculating how much sooner he'll be able to add on that extra room to the house (a nursery, maybe), when he almost drives off the road. He feels sick, like he might puke, his body rebelling against the pain inside him. The disorientation is worse; he half-expects his hands to pass right through the steering wheel when he grips it hard, trying to keep the car on the road. The phantom voice echoes faintly in his head, and he strains to listen even as he tells himself there's nothing there.

Maybe he should see a doctor. This isn't right. It isn't _sane_.

Just like that, everything kind of _snaps_ , and in the next breath he feels normal again. The afternoon sun is glaring through the windshield, there's Shania on the stereo, and he's going home to a wife who loves him. What could possibly be wrong?

* * *

_Hey. How're you doing today?_

_..._

_Yeah, okay, kind of a pointless question. Sorry. I just – I feel kind of stupid sitting here saying nothing._

_I wish ..._

_Never mind. You take your time. I'll wait._

* * *

On Friday night, Dean has – not a nightmare, exactly. He's not scared. He knows he's dreaming, and it worries him that he can't seem to wake up; but there's no sense of danger, just that unutterable loneliness that keeps hitting him at ever more frequent intervals. He has no idea what it means, or how to stop it. Usually he just endures it until it passes, and ignores it as best he can.

This is different, though. It's not going away this time. It's _inside_ him, coursing through his veins, filling him up, making him ache body and soul until he thinks he'll cry out from the pain.

He can't see. He can't feel. He can only hear, faintly, that voice again, calling his name. It echoes, as if someone's shouting from a long distance, and that just makes him feel more alone. Logically he knows that can't be true; he's lying in bed beside Cassie, warm and secure and loved. But his dreaming self isn't buying it. His dreaming self is huddled somewhere in a corner of his mind, curled into a tight ball, arms around drawn-up knees, head snugged down, hiding from the awful emptiness of himself. His dreaming self knows that something here is very wrong. Dean doesn't know how that can be possible, but it's true. That's the scary part. That's what makes this a nightmare.

The possibility that his dreaming self is right.

Cassie turns over in bed, slinging an arm over him, and Dean jolts into wakefulness. He's sweating like a pig, shivering with reaction, and just for a second her touch makes him want to run a million miles in the other direction. He tries to slide away, still more asleep than awake.

Lightning-fast, Cassie's hand catches his arm in a steely grip. Her nails dig into his skin, biting deep, drawing blood. Dean tries to twist free – and can't. He might as well be handcuffed. And Cassie is _still asleep_ , her face smooth and peaceful even while her fingers are turning into claws in his flesh.

Dean jerks his arm back, using all his strength and the energy of sudden fear. Cassie's nails slip in his blood, trailing in rivulets over the sheets, and he pulls away, feeling his skin tear in her grip. He nearly falls out of the bed, heart thumping, staring at her in near-panic. Cassie sleeps on undisturbed, a slight smile curving her lips.

Dean is dressed and out of the house in sixty seconds flat.

He's walking up Sam's drive before he even realises he meant to go there. For a second he hesitates, feeling stupid. He had a bad dream, and Cassie surprised him out of it with some kind of muscle spasm or something, and here he is about to wake Sam in the middle of the night? But the wounds in his arm are still bleeding, and that bone-deep ache of emptiness from his dream is still there. And Sam's his brother, for crying out loud: if he can't turn to him, then who?

He knocks on the front door before he can change his mind.

* * *

_Did you – did you see that?_

_What?_

_He moved._

_It's just a twitch. Involuntary._

_No. He_ moved _. I saw it._

_Don't get your hopes up. It's probably nothing._

_... yeah. Right. Thanks._

* * *

Sam's irritation is plain to see when he opens the door. Dean notices he's still dressed, even though it's past midnight; he's not sleeping again, apparently. His new brotherly instinct surges again, demanding he find out why. He shoves it aside. Sam already has a mother. He'd just get pissed at Dean for asking anyway.

"Dean? What are you doing here? It's the middle of the night."

"Really? I hadn't noticed." Dean holds up his arm. "Can I borrow a band-aid?"

"Jesus." Sam's eyes get wide, and he opens the door to let Dean in, trailing him through to the kitchen. "What happened?"

Dean pretends not to hear. He's not prepared to talk about it just yet. He rummages through Sam's first aid kit, pulling out gauze and peroxide.

"Dean?" Sam comes up beside him and takes careful hold of his injured arm, looking it over. "Are those _scratch_ marks?"

"Yeah." Dean soaks the gauze in peroxide and hisses when he applies it to the gouges. He can feel Sam looking at him, waiting for an explanation.

"Did you and Cassie have a fight?"

Sam's voice is gentle. Dean's never heard him sound like that before. It's comforting, in a wussy kind of way.

"No. I was - dreaming," he says. "Not a good one. And I woke up, and she grabbed me and did – this." He rubs his good hand over his face. He feels _really_ stupid. "I – I couldn't break free for a minute. And she was – _smiling_. In her sleep. Like nothing was happening. It kind of freaked me out."

"Christ." Sam takes over the first aid, resting his free hand on Dean's back in wordless support. He wipes the wounds clean and tapes fresh gauze over the worst of them. "Has this happened before?"

"No. Never. Look, I'm probably being an idiot, I know that." Dean darts a look at him. "But I, uh ..." He trails off, unsure how to ask. They don't exactly have a sharing-is-caring relationship.

"Take the spare room." Sam doesn't meet his gaze, putting the first aid kit away and throwing the bloodied gauze into the trash. "Whoever gets up first makes coffee."

"Deal."

He tries not to let his relief show, but he's fairly sure Sam knows anyway. It doesn't bother him too much. He's just glad to be here instead of _there_ , with a wife who suddenly unsettles him and a life that feels more unreal by the minute.

Dean stretches out on the bed in Sam's guest room, letting himself unwind, and realises he feels normal for the first time in days. The thought follows him deep into sleep, and there are no more dreams.

* * *

Sam's up before him, like always – or else he just didn't sleep. Dean surfaces to the smell of coffee brewing down the hall, and the soft thumping of Sam's cock rock on the stereo. Who listens to Black Sabbath first thing in the morning, for God's sake?

He stumbles into the kitchen, letting his nose guide him to much-needed caffeine. Sam appears in front of him with a full mug, and Dean moans in gratitude. He's halfway through it before he actually takes note of Sam as something other than a coffee-bringer. When he does look up, it hits him like a punch to the solar plexus.

Sam's in a suit. An honest-to-God, proper suit, charcoal grey, and a crisp white shirt and a _tie_ , and ... huh. Dean knew he was a lawyer, but he's never seen him dressed for work before. He remembers Dad teaching Sam how to tie a Windsor, and Sam being frustrated because he couldn't get the knack. Looks like he's learned it since; the green silk noose around his neck is impeccable.

It doesn't look right though, somehow. Like this, Sam's too polished to be real. And Dean is becoming wary of things that don't feel real.

"What the hell? It's Saturday," he says, then realises how lame he sounds.

"Duty calls." Sam flips open his briefcase – his _briefcase_ , Jesus – and searches through it. "I'll be back by two. Are you ..." He stops rummaging and looks up to meet Dean's gaze. "Are you okay?"

"Uh. Yeah, I guess." Dean scratches his neck. He's pretty sure he was freaking out last night. So Cassie scratched him in her sleep; so what? He's had worse injuries in the line of duty. "I'm gonna get dressed and go home. I'll see you there later."

"Okay." Sam clicks the case shut and heads for the door. "Lock up when you leave."

He's almost outside when Dean forces himself to speak.

"Hey, Sam?"

"Yeah?" He looks back, eyebrows arched in query. Dean swallows.

"Um. Thanks. For, you know." He gestures awkwardly, and Sam grins.

"Sure."

He's gone then, but the memory of his smile lingers. Dean smiles in reflex, then shakes his head. He needs to get home before Cassie thinks he's flipped his lid. If he's quick, he might make it back before she wakes up.

He puts his coffee mug in the sink, and the white gauze on his arm catches his eye. He peels off one end of the tape, just to see how bad it looks in full daylight.

There's nothing there. His skin is unmarked. It's as if Cassie never touched him at all.

* * *

_Something's happening, isn't it?_

_Sir, please wait outside. We're just running a couple more tests._

_Wait, what? What tests? Nobody said anything to me about this._

_Sir, just wait here. We'll be done in a minute._

_Is he going to be okay?_

_... Answer me!_

* * *

Dean freaks out for a good half-hour or so: a full-on panic attack, shakes, cold sweat, the works. Then he takes a shower, borrows one of Sam's t-shirts and goes home. What else is there to do? He can't stay with Sam forever, and he's not about to check himself into the county loony bin on account of one bad dream. Maybe he's overstressed or something. He's got some personal time coming; a few lazy mornings in bed might work wonders.

He's home before Cassie gets up, which is a minor miracle. He finds himself watching her all through breakfast, trying to see something different about her. About himself. Trying to figure out if he really is cracking up.

But. Sam was there. He saw the scratches.

_So you say_ , whispers a small part of him. _Maybe you imagined the whole thing. You're not the most reliable of witnesses these days._

It's impossible. He can't be ... imagining, dreaming, hallucinating things. But the thought stays with him, sitting quietly in the back of his mind, colouring everything he does with the faint tinge of unreality he's rapidly growing to fear. He's been distracted at work, not hearing people when they talk to him, dropping things, forgetting procedures; the same thing starts to happen at home, to the point where Cassie tries to take his temperature in case he has a fever.

"I'm fine," he says, shying away from her. "I'm just tired."

She looks at him closely, and he flinches. He imagines the smallest of satisfied grins on her face, just for an instant.

"Early to bed for you tonight," she tells him. "No staying up until three o'clock trying to kick Sam's ass at pool."

"Darts," he corrects, but she's gone back to making the salad.

Dean hides away in the den all morning, pretending to watch sports and biting all his fingernails down to the quick. Random thoughts keep passing through his mind: salt, MasterCard, the Catholic Mass sung in Latin. It's with a very genuine sense of relief that he hears Sam's car turn into the drive. He's out the door and nearly pulling Sam from his seat before he can stop himself.

"You know, Saturday is the Sabbath in some religious cultures," he says, sticking his hands in his pockets. "Which means you just broke a commandment, little brother."

"Bite me," Sam says in greeting. He looks tired; his face is strained, too pale, and he has dark rings under his eyes. Dean's been seeing much the same situation in his own mirror most mornings lately. A fine pair they make.

"Testy. You ready to be humiliated?"

"Bring it on, old-timer." Sam flashes him a rare grin, and Dean grins back. This was a good idea. He feels better having Sam around.

Sam doesn't mention the unmarred skin on his forearm. Neither does Dean.

* * *

_We're losing him._

_No. You're wrong. He wouldn't just give up._

_He may not have a choice. His body's too battered. His brain—_

_No. You don't understand. He can't die. Not now._

_I just think you should prepare yourself, that's all._

_... thanks for the update._

* * *

It's the perfect Saturday afternoon. Dean grills steaks the size of house bricks, and Cassie bakes potatoes and makes what is possibly the best coleslaw on the planet. The three of them talk and eat and laugh, and there's a moment when Dean stops and thinks, _It will never get any better than this._

It ought to be a happy thought. A keeper. One of those golden moments people remember in their old age and bore their grandkids to tears retelling fifty times over. But as soon as the thought forms in his mind Dean can feel the darkness creeping over him, despair colouring everything in shades of grey. His vision whites out for an instant and he falls to his knees, fighting not to sob aloud.

No, he thinks. Not like this. I can't do this.

He doesn't even know what he means.

All this – Cassie, Sam, even this house – it's all wrong. It's a gut-deep certainty, and when he opens his eyes to see his wife and his brother gazing at him in dismay, Dean's first instinct is to run.

He doesn't, of course. That would be crazy. He confesses to tripping and endures Sam's immediate mockery and Cassie's attempted mothering with equally bad grace, and looping through his brain is the phrase _brain tumour, it's a brain tumour, you're a dead man and you don't even know it_. Sam laughs at his scowl, but when Dean flinches away from Cassie's touch for the fifth time that day, she snaps.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" she hisses when Sam goes to get another beer. "You're acting like a virgin in a whorehouse."

"I'm sorry," Dean says, hating himself, a little afraid of – something, he doesn't know what. "I just – I don't know. I'm jumpy, okay? I don't know why."

"Great. Sure. Fine." Cassie flops back into her deck chair and crosses her arms. "Let me know when you're done being Garbo. I swear, Dean, you and your moods this week ... if we're that disturbing to you, why are you even here?"

I don't know, he wants to shout, and that thought scares the crap out of him.

* * *

He's saying goodbye to Sam after dinner when it happens for the last time. Between one breath and the next he's thrown _out_ of himself, separate, disparate. He sees Sam driving away, and he wants to cry out – but there are voices all around him, urgent, strident, barking orders he doesn't understand.

_Code Blue ... get a damned crash cart ..._

_Charging—_

_Let me see – that's my brother, let me fucking SEE—_

Sam, he thinks dimly. That's Sam.

But Sam's in his car at the end of the block, waiting for the light to change. Dean shakes his head, tries to think, but something isn't letting him. His vision is fading out, blurring. There's a wind rising about him, touching nothing, buffeting him in different directions. He can't tell which way to go. The voices continue to yell and pound and pull at him, rising in timbre and pitch until his ears ring and he wants to clamp his hands over them and _scream_.

Just as suddenly, there's silence.

Dean looks around. Nothing moves, not even the slightest hint of a breeze. Everything looks the same – the houses, the quiet suburban street, even down to the gum wrapper near his left foot – but it's all static. Frozen. He can't hear anything, can't sense anything living. He can't even feel his own heart beating.

Then faintly, there's a sound he's never heard, but knows instinctively: Sam is crying.

_You have to come back._

A bell rings somewhere deep inside him, and Dean _wakes up_.

* * *

Conscious but not, still caught in the depths of the dream, he remembers. The demon. The crash. The relief of knowing it was all over, that he could stop fighting.

Two things occur to him simultaneously:

One: He's tired. He's so very tired. He feels like he hasn't slept in years.

Two: He doesn't have to go back.

He could stay here, inside the reality in his mind. He can give up the hunt, let Sam and Dad carry on. Let everything go. He doesn't need to kill anything ever again.

_Dean, please. We need you._

The demon told him otherwise. It lies; Dean knows this – but not always. Not when the truth will hurt more. And those words hurt like nothing else Dean has ever known; therefore, they must be true.

_I can't do this alone._

Bullshit. Sam can do anything he wants to. And Dean wants – he _deserves_ – to rest, God damn it. He wants to know what it's like to have a life, even an imaginary one. He wants to try being normal inside his head, doing all those things he mocks in broad daylight. His waking self wants anything _but_ that – but his waking self isn't in charge right now.

He can see it, the cord that binds him to life. Thin, silver, infinitely fragile. He can slide back along it, rejoin the world, take up the hunt again. He can rend it, cut it, break it with a thought.

_Dean._

Sam's never sounded like that. Anguished. Pleading. Lost. Dean's always been around to save him from that kind of angst. If he gives up now, who'll have Sam's back?

God _damn_ it, Sammy, Dean thinks, still half-fighting himself, and helplessly _snaps back_.

END


End file.
